


Don't Forget Me

by bag_gins



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Crossover, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, Memory Loss
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-25
Updated: 2013-11-24
Packaged: 2018-01-02 14:13:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1057749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bag_gins/pseuds/bag_gins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three years after Sherlock's fake suicide, he discovers that John doesn't remember him after undergoing treatment to have his memories of Sherlock erased. In a rash moment, Sherlock decides to do the same, only realizing once in his mind that he immediately regrets his decision. Trapped in his own mind as his memories are being deleted, he and John try to escape.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Forget Me

**Author's Note:**

> It's finally here after slaving over for weeks. After seeing Eternal Sunshine, I had to do this crossover. Please enjoy!

From the moment Sherlock wakes, he knows something is off. He stretches out languidly in his bed, sighing with dolorousness. No, something is definitely wrong. His thoughts are foggy, preventing him from determining the reason for the ambiguity behind his discomfort. Sherlock, to no avail, can tell what is wrong with him. He pushes the sheets off of himself and makes his way into the kitchen.

The clock reveals how late in the afternoon it really is. Once he concludes that the reason he feels so off is due to the fact he overslept, Sherlock pushes the thought aside in his mind. Still, a feeling of uncertainty lingers in his mind. He draws another simple conclusion in his mind. _I should phone Lestrade,_ he thinks. There has to be something going on today.

He puts the kettle on the stove to boil while he holds the phone between his shoulder and ear as it rings away.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade," Greg answers automatically.

"Have you got anything for me today?" he cuts to the chase. There is a hesitant pause for three and a half seconds. Sherlock registers this into his brain.

Lestrade’s answer is bereft of confidence. “No, not today, Sherlock. Sorry.”

"Really? You have no cases, nothing for me?"

"No. I’ll call you as soon as get anything." Another pause. "It’s good to have you back."

Sherlock ends with a “likewise” and hangs up.

"Liar," he says aloud. He puzzles momentarily. Sherlock knows Lestrade was lying, trying to cover up a case he didn’t want Sherlock on. _But why would he do that?_ he ponders to himself, rather irritated at being withheld information. In a flash, Sherlock grabs his coat and scarf, pulling on his gloves and slipping on his shoes. _If Lestrade won’t let me in on this, I’ll let myself in,_ he triumphantly states to himself. Though Sherlock may not admit it aloud, sometimes he really does love to be stubborn. Down the stairs and out the door he goes to flag down a cab, leaving his tea to over steep and go cold on the kitchen counter.

* * * *

Just as he had hoped, Lestrade isn’t back from the crime scene. Sherlock struts into Scotland Yard without so much as making eye contact with anyone. He’s on a mission. Of course, everyone avoids eye contact with him, afraid that he might take notice of them and string out their life’s story in front of their eyes. When everyone is looking away, Sherlock unlocks Lestrade’s office with a spare keys he pick pocketed off of him. He slides into his office, closing the door behind him softly.

The information is on the computer, Sherlock knows, as Lestrade would have printed out the documents and taken them with him to the scene of the crime. Often Lestrade changes his computer password in attempt to keep Sherlock out, but his passwords are often still too easy to guess. More than likely, he has resorted to picking random letters and numbers for his password, though there was no way to remember them.

_He must keep a note somewhere,_ Sherlock thinks as he rubs his hands under the desk, feeling for any paper. Aha! Indeed there is a note, taped to the underside of his desk. To his delight, Lestrade left the document right there on the screen when Sherlock types in his password. Sherlock reads over the file quickly. A woman named Regina Donnelly was the victim. Strangled in her own apartment. She was 48 years old. She had three children, two sons and one daughter. She used to work at a pharmacy in Croydon.

_Why on earth would he hide this from me?_ Sherlock is piqued by Greg’s secrecy. _Ought to be simple enough. I could solve it in minutes._ Making a mental note of the victim’s address, he shuts off the computer. No one dares confront him when he gallivants out of Lestrade’s office.

* * * *

The gray clouds above threaten a downpour on the whole investigation. Yellow tape and policemen standing watch cuts off public access and the prying eyes of vulture-like reporters. Thinking it best to observe from afar at first, Sherlock blends in with a crowd of concerned passerby’s, onlooking the flat complex, observing from afar. _They haven’t rolled the body out, there’s still a chance I can get a look at it,_ he hopes.

As he surveys the scene, his attention is drawn to a short man arguing with a police officer. The man tugs his sleeves down in frustration. Sherlock takes a step towards them to eavesdrop on their conversation.

"Please, I need to get home. I’ve already answered all of the questions the detectives wanted to get from me," the man pleads with the stocky policeman. Sherlock internally cheers. _A witness! It must be my lucky day._

The policeman shakes his head regretfully. “Sorry, sir, but the building is closed until we clear out.” At this, the man turns with a sigh and makes his path away from his home. The conversation is clearly over.

Just as he passes him, Sherlock speaks up.”It’s a shame, isn’t it?”

The man turns around abruptly. “Sorry?”

"Poor Ms. Donnelly. Did you know her?" Sherlock makes himself sound casual, trying to avoid making the man feel as if he was being questioned again.

"Yeah, she was a neighbor - well, lived down the hall. Didn’t know her too awfully well…" he drifts off, looking back at the gurney covered in white sheet, rolling out Ms. Donnelly’s corpse. Sherlock frowns. Now there’s nothing he could get from the body. He curses himself for sleeping in so late. He’s going to have to get most of the information from this witness.

"I’m Sherlock, by the way, who are you?" he says, trying to sound as nice as possibly after being so deeply annoyed by the removal of the body.

"John, John Watson," he nods.

"You said you answered some questions to the police?" Sherlock jumps to the chase. No more playing nice. He needs to get to the bottom of things.

John shifts uncomfortably onto his right leg, suppressing a wince. “Yes.”

"And what did you tell them?"

"You’re not with the police," he said more of a statement than a question.

"No," Sherlock had hoped this wouldn’t be a difficult one. It looks as if his hopes are in vain.

"Then why do I need to tell you?" says John defiantly.

"Because I’m trying to help," he offers up. This doesn’t work on John and he turns to walk away. Quickly, Sherlock adds, "I imagine you’re pretty guarded because of your military service, Mr. Watson."

Just as Sherlock had expected, John stops abruptly. “Who told you that?” he demanded. “Who are you?”

"No one told me. I see your military career in you haircut, your limp, and your reaction to dismissal by authoritative figures," Sherlock states.

"How?"

Sherlock knows he has John hooked now. He begins,”You turned away from the officer with a slight nod subconsciously. People in the military do when they are being excused by someone higher up in rank than them. Your left leg bothers you and you shift onto your other leg when you’re uncomfortable. That says your slight limp is psychosomatic. You’re used to keeping your hair short, so you don’t let it grow too long, but would feel strange if you didn’t let it grow a little. Therefore, you served in the army, sent home after you were injured.”

John stands there, face dropping some of its sternness as he takes all of Sherlock’s deductions in. “That’s,” he says, “that’s amazing. You’re brilliant.”

Sherlock hides the surprise behind his usual poker face. _This man really thinks that was amazing? Hardly a difficult deduction,_ he ponders. “Now, John, I need your help if we’re to catch Mrs. Donnelly’s murderer. I need you to tell me everything you remember from last night.”

"Okay. My wife is away visiting her family, so I was in my flat having a late dinner. It was about midnight when I heard a loud scream and something break. I jumped up and grabbed my gun and left to investigate. I went down to the hall and that’s when I saw Ms. Donnelly’s door open and someone disappearing down the stairwell. I started following him, and when he saw me, he took a mad dash out of the front of the building."

"What did he look like?" Sherlock asks.

Not seeming to mind the interruption, John says, “He had his face covered, I couldn’t see.”

"Hmm, continue," Sherlock ushers with his hands for him to proceed recounting the events from the previous night.

"Right, okay. Anyway, I ran after him down the street when he turned around and threw something small and black at me. For a moment, I thought it was a grenade and I ducked down behind a car, but nothing happened. He got away," John clenches his fist, obviously angry with himself for not catching the man, "What he actually threw was some kind of stone. It had some… weird marking on it - "

Sherlock snaps upright. “Was it a silver engraving and had one main line with three lines coming out diagonally on each side in a circle?”

Astonished, John answers, “Yes, how did you know?”

"Do you still have it?" Sherlock is so worked up, he dismisses John’s inquiry with his own.

"No, the police took it away to analyze it," John says, "What does it mean?"

"Thats the mark of the Silver Boar," Sherlock responds gravely.

"The who?"

"2002, nine people killed in their flats. All different victims, all random complexes across the UK… all killed in different ways," he answers more aloud than directly to John.

"Then how do they know it was all him? Was it because of the stone?"

"Precisely. He was hard to pick up, now he’s back," Sherlock can hardly hide his excitement. It’s his second chance at finally catching the Silver Boar. Once he gets him, Sherlock will rub it right in Lestrade’s face.

"Why do you think he’s back?" John asks after Sherlock spends a while silently pondering to himself.

Sherlock furrows his brows at being broken from his prideful fantasy. “Haven’t the faintest. Not yet, at least.”

"The Silver Boar… he saw my face. My god, do you think he’d come after me? Or my wife?" John’s concern grows at the thought of his wife in danger.

"Unlikely your wife, more likely you, unfortunately," Sherlock doesn’t soften the blow of the ominous danger John is now in.

"What should I do?" he looks over to the police removing the crime scene tape. "Are the police going to try to protect me?"

Sherlock won’t let John go to the police, not if it would give away Sherlock’s secret involvement. “No, you’re not going to the police for this.”

"Why’s that?"

Sherlock smiles almost apologetically. “The police don’t know I’m on this case.”

"What?"

"John, listen," Sherlock leans in, disregarding his concern, "I can find him before he strikes again. I just need time."

"Then what do I do, go with you?" To Sherlock’s surprise, he doesn’t find the idea half bad. John is very compliant and easier - far easier to speak with than most every witness Sherlock has had to deal with. And John couldn’t go home. Sherlock wouldn’t have John’s murder on his hands if he did nothing to keep him safe. Yet he couldn’t reveal himself to Lestrade. Yes, this would have to do.

"As long as you don’t disrupt my thinking process much, I think we’ll be fine," Sherlock smiles and receives a returned smile from John, much to his surprise.

"I feel like I’ve seen you before, Sherlock," John says.

"Maybe you have. I do have a website. The Science of Deduction - "

"Not online. I mean, I’ve seen you in person… Oh I know! You were talking to my wife, a few nights ago. Remember? Mary Morstan?"

Sherlock is confused. He’s never seen this man before in his life, and knows no one by the name of Mary Morstan. “If I knew your wife or had seen you, I would have remembered.”

John thinks momentarily. “Maybe I’m wrong… never mind.” The two begin walking along to the other side of the street. “Are we going to your house?”

"That’s the plan…" Sherlock stops as he sees Lestrade making a bee line towards them. Now he’s in for it. He hopes he’s not going to shut him out of the case and gives him a chance to participate in hunting down the Silver Boar.

"What are you doing here?" Lestrade demands immediately.

On comes Sherlock’s poker face. “I don’t appreciate you withholding cases from me. You know you won’t catch the Silver Boar without my assistance.”

Lestrade looks with deep concern at John before turning back to Sherlock. “What do you think you’re doing?”

"I’m speaking to the witness and he’s accompanying me back to my flat. Now hopefully, I can also return with more detailed files," Sherlock jabs at Greg and extends his arm out to receive the files.

"Everything’s fine, sir, really," John offers up some confirmation to diffuse the situation. Lestrade looks astonished at both of them before nodding hesitantly.

He gingerly and slowly hands over the files to Sherlock. “Okay… alright.” He lingers momentarily before Sherlock scolding look ushers him away.   “I’ll drive us. Where’s your house?” John breaks the awkward silence set after Lestrade’s absence.

"221B Baker Street. Let’s go," Sherlock says. With this, the two turn to John’s car to leave the scene. It finally begins to rain.

* * * *

Lestrade returns to Sally Donovan, whose arms are crossed in discontent. “Sherlock’s ruining the whole thing isn’t he? Trying to get John to remember him?”  
He shakes his head, “No… I think Sherlock’s gone and had the procedure done himself…”

* * * *

Sherlock had the longest amount of time to prepare himself for seeing John again. Three years to brace himself for whatever could happen. As he stood outside of the restaurant in the snow, he watched John eating with his wife through the rosy glass. Though Sherlock had before observed John from afar, this time was different. Beforehand, he would occasionally watch him while he was out running errands or buying food at the store. He was careful to never let John see him, and he never did. This time, John was going to. _Yes, it’s time,_ Sherlock thought as he straightened himself out. Into the restaurant he went.

_There are three most likely outcomes, he thought. First: John will be inconceivably angry. He will hit me. Possibly once, more than likely a few times. I won’t stop him._

"Evening, sir. Table for one?" the frizzy headed waitress asked.

_Second: John will be too shocked to react at first. He will try to hold back tears, though doubtfully his attempts will be successful. In that moment, I’ll comfort him, hold him, even._

"No thanks, I’m just here to see someone quickly."

_Third: John will be upset, though he will jump up to embrace me and tell me how much he missed me. Out of the three, this is the least likely. Unfortunate, though. It would be the easiest._

They sat to the left side of the restaurant, John facing away and his wife facing the door. Sherlock knew his wife would spot him first. And she did. She looked as if she had seen a ghost. 

She kept her composure as she stood up and patted John assuredly on the shoulder. “I’ll be right back, honey,” she said. Walking towards Sherlock, she took him by the arm and began leading him out of the restaurant. Sherlock let her, instead of breaking out of her grasp and spinning John around to see him, which was what he really wanted to do. In that moment, he decided against it, believing John’s wife could give him some insight on John and soften the blow of Sherlock’s existence.

The two stepped outside of the restaurant. She pushed Sherlock away furiously. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

"I understand you’re upset. I’m sorry I didn’t come back sooner - " he began, trying to comfort her.

"You’re too late. He’s happy now. He’s moved on." The expression on her face fell, transitioning from anger more to sadness. Sherlock didn’t understand. Something is wrong, he thought.

"I know he’s going to be upset when he sees me, but I need your help on this."

"No," she shook her head. "You aren’t going to see him. You need to leave, Sherlock - " Just as she said that, the restaurant door opened and out stepped John. His wife turned to him.

"Is everything alright?" he asked them. Then he looked at Sherlock and… nothing. Sherlock couldn’t believe it. He was looking right into John’s eyes and John was looking right back into his. A shiver passed through his body. John’s eyes were empty and stared through him as if he was an invisible figure. There wasn’t the slightest spark of emotion in his face. He felt nothing. Sherlock stared back, unable to move, unable to speak, unable to breathe. Of all the hundreds of scenarios Sherlock had estimated might happen when he and John were reunited, this wasn’t even considered a possibility. John didn’t seem to even recognize him.

"Everything’s fine, I’m coming," his wife broke the silence that stood between them all. Before she retreated with her husband back into the comfort of the warm restaurant, she turned to Sherlock once more. "Go," she whispered.

Sherlock was left alone, standing in the cold flurry of the snow. Though his heart was beating rapidly in his chest, he felt hollowed out inside. Such was a feeling Sherlock had never experienced prior to this. His thoughts were jumbled and he had control of himself. His mind felt like a car careening into oncoming traffic. He felt broken and it terrified him. It seemed like a great long while before he found the strength to move his legs, one in from of the other, all the way back to Baker Street.

* * * *

Sherlock did two things when he arrived back at his flat. First, he took off his wet coat and scarf, dampened by the snow. He left them on the floor, not bothering to hang them up properly. He rolled up his sleeve and stuck, not three, but five nicotine patches onto his pale forearm. At that point, Sherlock could not differentiate his shaking from emotional distress or the nicotine pumping through his body.

The second thing Sherlock did was lay himself down on the couch. He then proceeded to lay motionless, staring blankly at the ceiling. He kept in the position for hours. The only movement that came from him was the trembling of his body unable to cope with the events that has just transpired but only a few hours earlier. Sherlock repeated the whole scene over and over again in his mind like a movie. He looked for any sign that would clue him away as to how John could have pulled off not reacting. It didn’t make sense. Not a single muscle in his face moved to signify any acknowledgement of emotion. He was void of any feelings stirred upon seeing Sherlock.  
Sherlock considered the possibility of John somehow pulling this off to get back at him for what he did.

But John wasn’t like that, Sherlock knew. It was impossible for John not to have so much as blinked at him. The way he looked at Sherlock… he was empty. It haunted him and he was deeply distraught by John’s expressionless face. It was burned into his mind.

After hours, Sherlock finally stirred when his shaking had become to fierce to force down with his own mind and several nicotine patches. He pressed hard against his temples in a feeble attempt to control his body’s intense reaction to his meeting with John. Stop it, stop it, stop it! he screamed in his head.

_This isn’t working, I need… I need,_ he thought desperately as he started pulling books off the shelf, searching for the hollowed out book. So cluttered were his thoughts, he couldn’t remember the title. Forgetting something as simple as that terrified him further and his trembling continued. When he finally found it, he opened it hastily and found what he needed. He had promised John long ago he would never do drugs again. Sherlock even went so far as to refrain from smoking for almost two years. John was there to support him and encourage him not to go back to his bad habits. 

_But he wouldn’t be there for me now,_ Sherlock thought vehemently as he took the small, plastic bag of cocaine from the hollowed book. His hands were so unsteady, he had a difficult time making two lines for himself. Even the simple task of rolling the paper into a thin tube took great effort to steady his hands. Right before the first line went up his nose, he thought, _I’m sorry._ He couldn’t tell if he was apologizing to himself or to John. Sherlock’s throat blazed with fire of the drug as he drew back. It had been years since he last used it. Stinging tears well up in his eyes from the intensity of the drugs. He didn’t wipe them away as he took in the second line. 

* * * *

After several hours of Sherlock taking drugs and resuming his still position on the couch, he heard Mrs. Hudson coming up the stairs. He imagined that he would get scolded for his drug use, but he didn’t care. It helped him to relax and his shaking had slightly subsided.

"Sherlock!" she called. "I picked up some milk for you - " She came through the doorway. The first thing she noticed was, of course, the bag of cocaine and a very blank Sherlock staring up at the ceiling, unblinking. "Sherlock? Sherlock, my god, what have you gone and done now? What’s happened to you?" 

"I saw him, Mrs. Hudson," he spoke softly and slowly. "And he saw me." His voice caught in his throat, still burning from the cocaine. Mrs. Hudson said nothing, still glued to the spot, milk carton in hand. "He saw me," Sherlock continued, gulping heavily, "and he looked right through me. Like he didn’t know who I was." He snapped his mouth shut before his emotions could well up too great to keep them from spilling out. Mrs. Hudson turned her back and covered her mouth. "I don’t understand how he could do that to me."

Mrs. Hudson was sniveling, trying hard to cover up her cry. Sherlock turned to look at her. She’s hiding something, he could tell. “What is it?” he questioned her. She turned aside and left the milk on the table. He jumped up quickly, possibly too aggressive for Mrs. Hudson’s liking. “You’re hiding something from me.”

"No, I’m not. I’m just upset John treated you that way," she lied insistently. As she tried to exit the flat, Sherlock stepped in front and blocked her escape. Down at her he looked with his red, tired eyes. He didn’t need to ask twice before she finally broke. “I’m sorry… I wasn’t going to tell you… I wasn’t supposed to…”

"Tell me what?" Sherlock’s heart was pounding fast, anticipating the truth. She told him to stay and that she was going to fetch something from her flat. When she arrived back, Sherlock was still waiting for her inside the doorway. In her hand, Mrs. Hudson held a small, yellow card. Her hand were visibly shaking as she extended it for Sherlock to take the card from her. He handled it gently as if it was a ticking time bomb. Sherlock stared blankly at the card as he read it.

_Dear Martha Hudson,_

_John Watson has had Sherlock Holmes erased from his memory. Please never mention their relationship to him again._

_Thank you._

Sherlock was confused. “What the hell is this supposed to be?”

"I received it in the mail about a month ago. Everyone who knows John did," Mrs. Hudson dabbed at her eyes with the shirt sleeve.

"This is ridiculous, tell me what’s really going on!" he raised his voice.

Tears were falling down Mrs. Hudson’s cheeks as she stayed silent. He could see the honesty in her expression, but he didn’t understand. _You can’t delete memories, that’s absurd. The science doesn’t exist, what kind of game…_ he mulled over in his head. He paced away from his landlady and pondered of the possibilities. It seemed like quite a while before Sherlock finally concluded, _John must have somehow learned of my existence earlier and arranged some game of revenge on me. If he thinks he’s going to get away with this…_

"So you’re in on it, too? John’s got you in on his little game?" he broke the silence that stood between them. He stooped tall over her, accusing Mrs. Hudson viciously.

"I thought it was fake, too, at first," her tone made her sound as if she was pleading, like she feared he would hurt her. "I’m sorry, I don’t know much about it!" Mrs. Hudson squeaked. Fed up, Sherlock stomped over to gather his coat and shoes. "Where are you going, Sherlock?"

"Lacuna," he spat, as if it were some deeply foul word. "Muller Street. I’m getting to the bottom of this," he read the address on the card aloud. "If John thinks he’s getting away with this childish revenge game, he’s seriously mistaken.” It was the last thing he said before he stormed out of the flat.

* * * *

He recognized the street on which the mystery office was located, but never before recalled the building there. Sherlock’s shoes crunched the snow on the pavement of the street opposite from Lacuna. It looked hardly impressive, as it was crammed between two larger buildings. It had a pathetic, yet unsettlingly normal look to it. Sherlock boldly jaywalked across the street directly towards the building. Bracing himself for whatever might await him inside, he stalked inside the door. The first thing he noticed as he entered the office was the smell of freshly printed paper. The walls were painted a pleasant beige with several large photographs of various nature scenes hung in different places. Two patients were seated in the waiting area, each with a box filled with some of their belongings placed on their lap. They both looked very unhappy.

Surprisingly to Sherlock, it appeared to look like a legitimate doctor’s office. _John did a convincing job of decorating this place for me,_ he mused. 

Immediately at the desk, he noticed a familiar face sitting behind the receptionist’s desk, filling out paperwork. This rose an anger in Sherlock. _Not Molly, too,_ he thought appalled. He couldn’t believe that she would betray him in such a way as to assist John in his little vendetta game after she helped him fake his death three years. Molly had consistently kept her promise of never letting another soul know of the truth. To go and abandon Sherlock in such a way was a slap to the face. 

She finally saw him when he leaned aggressively over the desk at her. “Sherlock! What… what are you doing here?”

"What the hell do you think you’re doing, playing along with John’s petty game of revenge?" Sherlock interrogated her as he leaned over the desk. Molly’s expression dropped when she heard John’s name. She was frightened and appeared to be genuinely confused. Sherlock held up the yellow card in front of her face. “To think after all the time I’ve known you, you’d stab me in the back to side with John. Even after you helped me disappear. I trusted you, Molly.”

"No, Sherlock, no. It’s not a game, Sherlock. I transferred here from Bart’s - " she denied. 

Sherlock drew the card back glaring down at her fiercely.”Even now you lie to my face,” he hissed through his teeth. 

Molly looked as if she was about to cry. “It’s not fake. It’s science. It’s real,” she insisted. “I’ll get Dr. Duskavitch, just… just hold on.” With that, she stumbled up from the office chair and retreated down the hall. Sherlock remained in place and reminded himself not to show any emotion. _That’s what John would want, for me to react,_ he pointed out to himself. As quick as Molly left, she returned with a middle aged man trailing behind her. He wore the typical medical attire with a blue tie. 

"You must be Mr. Holmes. Afternoon, I’m Doctor James Duskavitch," he greeted in his airy American accent, extending out his hand for him to shake it. Sherlock kept his hands stayed clenched behind his back and responded with icy blue eyes, piercing the doctor as he surveyed him up and down. Sherlock didn’t like the fact that he appeared to be, in fact, an actual doctor. _A very realistic looking actor,_ he attempted to convince himself. “Well,” continued Dr. Duskavitch, brushing off his unfriendly, borderline hostile attitude, “why don’t we talk some more in my office?”

"Yes," said Sherlock bitterly, "let’s."

As he followed the doctor down the corridor and into his office, he shot a deathly disapproving look at Molly. She looked down, deterred by his intense anger. Once in his office, Sherlock closed the door behind him. This, too, appeared to be an actual office. The unsettling normality of the whole building made Sherlock uncomfortable.

"I’m really very sorry you had to see that, Mr. Holmes," he gestured at the yellow card Sherlock was trying desperately hard not to crumple in his fist. "That wasn’t intended for you to see."

"Clearly," Sherlock spat at him.

"I know you must think this is some hoax, but I can assure you, this is real. Unfortunately because of confidentiality, I can’t show you the patient’s files. The science of selective memory deletion is very new. We’ve only been practicing for about a year now. Most of the time, the patients reach out to us, but occasionally we do offer our services to those who are depressed or suicidal. This technology saves lives, in a sense."

"John," Sherlock mumbled to himself, gazing at a painting of seagulls taking flight over a bay.

"Yes, Mr. Watson came in a few weeks ago and scheduled an appointment with us. But like I said, we can’t reveal information about his case because of confi — "

"Do you really expect me to believe this bullshit?" Sherlock barked at him. Upon realizing that his anger was getting the best of him, he forced himself to sit back in his chair. He reminded himself that revealing his emotions was just what John would want. And he mustn’t let John win. 

The doctor didn’t flinch at Sherlock’s outburst. “I’m truly sorry, Mr. Holmes. I strongly advise against attempting to contact John. He wouldn’t recognize you and if you were to somehow resurface his memories, it could do significant emotional damage to him. You care about him, don’t you?” 

Sherlock frowns is disgust at the doctor’s attempt to spark an emotional response within him. _Do I care?_ he wanted to say. _Do you really need confirmation, you prick?_ Instead, Sherlock stated, “I’ve heard enough. I’ll show myself out.”

"If you have any more questions, you know where we are. And the number is on the card as well," Dr. Duskavitch called gently after him as he left the office. Sherlock’s heart pounded out of control. He was absolutely furious. This was torture. _How could John do this to me?_ he repeated over and over in his head like a broken record. He did not so much as acknowledge Molly when she tried to speak to him as he passed. His destination was clear. Sherlock was leaving and nothing could stop him.

He was inconsolably distraught. It all seemed so… real. _But that’s impossible, you can’t erase memories. That’s absurd,_ he tried to assure himself for the fiftieth time. What frightened him more than anything was ambiguity. As long as he was sure of something, there was nothing to fear. But he wasn’t sure - not now. He doubted himself - his own judgement. _John is winning… but if this wasn’t a game…_ Sherlock had contemplated all of the possibilities, but nothing added up correctly.

Once out of Lacuna, Sherlock fished for his phone in his coat pocket. Regrettably, he dialed his brother’s number. As much as he would prefer to keep Mycroft out of his business, there was no one else he could consult who would know exactly what was going on. Surely, he would not lie to Sherlock about this. 

"Hello, Sherlock. So nice to hear from you," Mycroft answered.

"I need you to tell me about John." The other line was silent. Sherlock waited for him to answer.

"I will tell you what you want to know. I knew this would happen eventually." Sherlock’s stomach churned at his words. What would happen eventually? he wondered. "I see you are at Muller Street. I’m sending a car your way. It should be there in four minutes."

"Thank you," Sherlock mumbled quietly before hanging up. Four minutes later, the ominous, black car pulled up to the curb in front of him.

* * * *

The two brothers sat quietly across from one another in Mycroft’s office. Sherlock had just been thinking how he had had enough of offices for one day when Mycroft finally spoke. 

"You saw John," he stated. Sherlock nodded slowly. "And what happened?"

Sherlock shifted forward in his seat. “I followed him and his wife to a restaurant. When I went inside, his wife directed me back out and insisted I leave. Then — ” he swallowed hard, “John came out. He looked at me and I at him. He looked — “

"Like he didn’t recognize you?" Mycroft finished for him. Sherlock turned his head.

"Yes."

Mycroft pursed his lips. “I had you picked up from Muller Street. That is the street Lacuna is on.” 

"What is John trying to pull?" inquired Sherlock. He looked up at his brother. When their eyes met, Myrcoft looked away. Sherlock’s heart stopped. _Something is wrong… horribly, horribly wrong,_ he concluded fearfully.

"I’m not sure how to tell you this," he began, "but it’s true. Lacuna is a legitimate medical facility. A year ago, Dr. Duskavitch and his associate Dr. Kramer invented the process of selective memory deletion. Dr. Kramer stayed in America, while Dr. Duskavitch transferred over to the UK to spread their work. They plan in the future to branch out to other countries." Sherlock stayed silent, miserably speechless. "John checked in three months ago and was scheduled in for memory deletion. I know that Dr. Duskavitch couldn’t disclose any information, so I pulled up John’s file and read it over. John was suffering from severe depression. He was entering the early staged of alcoholism and he was abusing prescription drugs. He had," Mycroft paused before carefully finishing his sentence, "suicidal tendencies."

Sherlock couldn’t take it anymore. Visibly shaken, he left his chair and made for the window nearby. Turning his back to Mycroft, he clasped his hand over his mouth, staring gravely out the window. Pressure welled at the back of his eyes, tears dangerously close to slipping out. _No, god, please no,_ he prayed. _Please no, no, no, no, no._

Mycroft continued with reluctance. “He erased you. Since then, he has recovered from his depression. I understand that you’re upset, but it was for the best — “

"No!!" Sherlock snapped, charging at Mycroft and pointing his finger harshly in his brother’s face. "Don’t you even try to give me that ‘it’s for the best’ shit, Mycroft! You know fully well you could have stopped him and you fucking didn’t! How the hell could you sit back and let him do that to himself - to _me?!_ ” Mycroft couldn’t look Sherlock in the eyes. He understood the gravity of how this affected Sherlock now, and deep down, he felt guilty. Sherlock was right, he could have prevented this from happening. But he didn’t. And showing remorse would not help the situation. Instead, he opted to say nothing at all.

Sherlock stood back, red faced and breathing heavily. “I don’t want you to speak to me. Not ever again, do you understand me? You disgust me,” he cursed. He turned and left, the pressure behind his eyes growing more and more intense. It was at this point Sherlock accepted the fact that he was going to cry. Of course, Sherlock was no stranger to crying, for he often had to squeeze out a few crocodile tears to gain information or leverage for cases, but he had not genuinely cried, not since he spoke to John on the phone before supposedly jumping to his death. At least on top of Saint Bartholomew’s Hospital, he was slightly comforted with the knowledge that he and John would meet again in the future. This time, nothing could offer up and condolence for this tragedy. 

The walk back to Baker Street was, fortunately, a mere thirty five minutes. He only needed to hold off until then. The whole time back, his brain was stuck on repeat like a broken record. _I was too late, too late, too late…_

Upon arriving back, he closed the door behind him and locked it. Though he knew Mrs. Hudson knew better than to disrupt him at a time like this, the locking of the door gave him slight comfort that he had true privacy. He stood in the middle of the room. _How does one even go about crying? he wondered. Do I climb in bed and cry or do I shower and cry simultaneously? John would know… John… John… John…_ he thought of his name over and over. At last, the pressure of his eyeballs was too great to hold back. 

Tears started slipping out of his eyes effortlessly. It was then he realized that crying doesn’t require steps to prepare for it. It just happens. He cried silently, tears coming at an endless rate as he stood in his flat, alone. Sherlock had no clue just how physically draining crying really was and finally retreated slowly and painfully to his room. As the crying continued and continued, it became more intense. As he undressed for bed, his crying turned to sobbing. When he climbed under his sheets, his sobbing turned to weeping. His pain was truly unfathomable and inconsolable. The only person he unconditionally cared for in the world didn’t know he existed.

* * * * 

That night, Sherlock didn’t sleep. He stared at the wall with a deep emptiness in his soul. He had stopped crying eventually, but his pain continued raging on. He was angry at himself for not returning sooner. He was angry at Mycroft for not taking action to prevent this all from happening. He was angry at Dr. Duskavitch for creating it. He was angry at Molly for working at Lacuna. In fact, Sherlock was angry with every single person he knew - except for John. He couldn’t bring himself to be mad at John. John was innocent and mistaken. But it was his fault.

It was then that Sherlock had a dangerous thought. _I can’t live like this. I can’t live knowing the only person I care for is gone. What if I didn’t have to? What if I got my memory erased of John?_ At the time, it made sense to him. He thought so for two reasons. First, he wouldn’t have to live with the pain of John’s absence. Second, John did the same to him. It’s not like he would be upset with Sherlock. He doesn’t know who he is. Pondering over these thoughts, he concludes that this would be the best thing he could do for himself. The more he thought about it, the more he wanted to do it that second. He dressed himself hurriedly and rushed out the door just in time to flag down a cabbie.  
Sherlock opened the door and got inside. “Take me to Muller Street, please.”

* * * *

Molly had been deeply remorseful for Sherlock discovering what John had done. In part, she did feel guilty. After all, she was the one who suggested the procedure to John. But she could never bring herself to confess what she had done - not to Sherlock, not to anyone. _I trusted you, Molly,_ Sherlock had said. She remembers the look on his face. He was angry, but and in his eyes, she could see the sadness, the betrayal, the defeat. It would haunt her forever. 

She squeezed her eyes shut in a feeble attempt to close out her guilty conscious, but the vision of Sherlock’s face was burned into Molly’s eyes. Suddenly feeling the urge to vomit, she popped a mint in her mouth from the jar available for the patients on the counter top. 

Everything that happened after that moment happened so quickly, she had hardly any time to comprehend exactly what was occurring. One moment, she was forwarding printing out yellow cards for the patients’ family and friends, and the second, Sherlock rushed through the door, past the desk, and down the hall to Dr. Duskavitch’s office.

"Sherlock? Sherlock!" Molly jumped up from her seat and dashed after him. Dr. Duskavitch was just exiting his office when Sherlock bounded up, muttering almost manically.

"I want you to do it!" he pleaded.

"I-I’m sorry, Dr. Duskavitch! He just bounded right through," she stammered.

"It’s okay, Molly," he said calmly to her before turning the Sherlock. "Mr. Holmes, what can I do for you?" 

"I want you to erase my memory. I want you to erase John," Sherlock repeated. Molly didn’t believe her ears. _Sherlock, no. Don’t do it,_ she wished to plead with him, but before she could say anything, Dr. Duskavitch had already ushered Sherlock into his office and closed the door behind them. Molly bit her tongue in defeat and returned back to her desk with her head hanging.

* * * *

"Tell me about the procedure," Sherlock asked the doctor as he sat across from him.

"What we will have you do is go to your home and take everything you have the reminds you of Mr. Watson and bring it all here. Photographs, clothes, letters, gifts, anything you associate with him. You must make sure that you get all of it. When you bring it here, we will hook you up to our brain scanner and place each item in front of you. Your job is to think of the memory in which each item evokes from you. The areas in your brain that respond to the item will be pinpointed exactly and recorded in our computer. When that process is over, we will give you a sleeping pill that you will take the night after to assure you that you are in a deep, almost lucid-like dreaming state. We will come to your home and the deletion will begin. In order for us to delete every memory, you will be dreaming every single memory over again vividly. When those parts of your brain light up, out computer sends precise electric pulses to that area and it will be gone. We will also delete your memory of coming here. In the morning, you will wake up and remember nothing at all about Mr. Watson or your time here," Dr. Duskavitch explained.

Sherlock had been listening intently and nodded when the doctor finished. “That’s amazing. When can we have this process done?” 

"Well, let’s see, Mr. Holmes," he opened his laptop and scrolled through, reading what Sherlock assumed to be a schedule. "It looks like we had a cancellation for tonight. That spot is open for you, if you can gather your belongings associated with Mr. Watson and return here before we close at six. If not, we can get you in this Thursday."

"I’ll be back within the hour," Sherlock put back on his scarf and coat. "Thank you, Dr. Duskavitch."

"Anytime, Mr. Holmes," he nodded in approval.


End file.
